My Pee-Buddy ‘N’ Me

I peed next to Indian Doctor. Twice.

It must be said that I don’t keep a regular urinary schedule or anything like that. I drink seven bottles of water a day (for good luck), and so I go two or three times in an afternoon. It was just a coincidence that Indian Doctor and I met twice that day. Both times, I stood at the urinal, soon to be nestled by a visitor at the only conjoining fixture.

“How’s it going?” asked my wiener.

“Shut up,” said Indian Doctor’s wiener. “Don’t talk to me while I’m peeing.”
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Indian Doctor and I soon became close. One night we decided to go to the drive-in so that we could see Shoot ‘Em Up. However, the drive-in was sold out.

“Well, what do you wanna do?” I asked.

“I dunno,” said Indian Doctor.

“Me neither,” replied his wiener.

I had an idea. “How about we go to the moon?”

So we drove to the moon. It was very rocky.
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Indian Doctor liked the moon. I liked the moon. Both of our wieners liked the craters. We decided to get a summer house there. For when Earth-living got too warm. We spent a number of years vacationing on the moon, but then the moon lost its magic. We would vow that each summer would be our last. Still we kept coming back out of some ill-guided devotion. Maybe it was tradition. It was very rocky.
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Indian Doctor hates Billy Joel, but his wiener can’t stop listening to that shit. I’m indifferent to the whole affair. Let’s just say that I never turn off the radio when BJ pops on, but I don’t exactly tap my foot either.

My piano man is Elton John. My wiener’s is Ben Folds. My wiener is trendy and has a goatee.

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We were sitting under the stars one night and looking at the Earth, talking about this and that–all of us except for Indian Doctor’s wiener, which was in the kitchen making loganberry pie. “Don’t you wish this whole moon was made out of candy?” said Indian Doctor.

I smiled. “Oh man,” I said.

“Eh,” said my wiener. “It all tastes the same to me.”

“Shut up or I will stick a pencil in you,” I said.
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Indian Doctor’s wiener bought the pie recipe from Hap’s Roadside Diner. The diner pie was outstanding. The wiener’s pie was a cheap imitation.
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“Did you know that McDonald’s shakes are actually made of potatoes?” asked my wiener.

“No, I didn’t,” I said.

“It’s true,” said my wiener. “Did you know that an elephant can sustain itself on nothing but rocks and soil for three weeks before it dies?”

“No.”

“That’s also true. I just thought of it.”
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One night my wiener decided to play a joke on the rest of us. He put laxatives into our coffeed beverages.

We could tell by the look on its face that something was up.

I snuck some habanero peppers into its latte. Boy, was its face red.
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I don’t care what anyone tells you–my wiener never kissed Indian Doctor’s wiener. Not once.

I didn’t kiss it either. I wanted to, though. It made a hell of a pie.
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There is no square root of pie. Pie is a complex equation involving both dough and filling. If you square dough, you get bread. If you square filling, you have jelly (or a hearty stew). Therefore, no square root.
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I introduced Indian Doctor to Joli. She liked him very much.

I didn’t have the balls to introduce our wieners to her.
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One night we came into the house and found Indian Doctor’s wiener laying on the ground in a puddle of blood.

“Ow,” said my wiener. “My soul hurts.”

Tears were shed, blame was placed.

“I think I need to distance myself from you,” said Indian Doctor.

It was okay. I was only using him for his wiener anyway.
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I went out to dinner with Joli one night. I told her she could order anything she wanted on the menu, unless the food was red.

“You could just tell me not to order the lobster,” Joli said. She looked irritated.

“No,” I said. “For serious. I just don’t like red things.”

She ordered the T-bone–well-done–with the cream of mushroom soup and a side salad. The salad came with tomatoes.

I never saw Joli again.
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The Blood Mobile came to work one day. I heard about it and got really excited.

Turns out it was just a plain workvan where they drew blood. Not even racing stripes or anything.
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“Want to play Twenty Questions?” I asked it.

“Sure,” my wiener replied.

“Ask away,” I said.

“Is it a thing?”

“No.” 19.

“A place?”

“No.” 18.

“A person?”

“Yes.” 17.

“Alive in the past twenty-five years?”

“No.” 16.

“In the past fifty?”

“No.” 15.

“In the past hundred?”

“No.” 14.

“Oh. An old fart. American?”

“No.” 13.

“European?”

“Yeah.” 12.

“Real or fictional?”

“You wiener! It has to be a yes-or-no!”

“Is it fictional?”

“No.” 11.

“Is this person a horrible zombie, dripping with pus and dessicated flesh, hellbent on destructive revenge against the world and the twisted society that created him?”

“No. No it’s not.” 10.

“Is it Napoleon?”

“God damnit.”
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One day in the bathroom, I squeezed myself next to Kevin Wincloud. He was standing there with his underpants and his overpants at his ankles and his hands pressed against the top of the urinal.

He brought his hand to his mouth. I glanced over and saw a collection of loose gummi candies sitting atop the john. He snatched up another–a worm–and shoved it in his mouth. I smiled.

After I got a fair shake, I playfully pushed his head violently against the tiled wall. He looked over and shoved his thumb into my eye.

“It’s just not the same,” said my wiener later.

I sighed. “I wonder where Indian Doctor is now.” I wiped a drop of blood from the tip of my nose.

"Arbor Day"

Annie Pitts cuffed her right hand to her husband Leroy’s left hand. Then she did the same, except with the opposite hands.

“Nobody else is here.” Leroy’s face was pressed on the bark.

“They’ll be here,” Annie replied. She could not see Leroy.

“It’s raining.”

“So?” Annie’s face was not pressed on bark.

“So they don’t cut down trees when it’s raining.”

The rain got harder.

“None of your friends are here either,” Leroy said.

“They’ll be here.”

“It’s raining.” Leroy was wet. “Where are the keys?”

“In my pocket.”

“Give me the keys.”

“Leroy.”

“Give me the keys.”

“Leroy.”

“May I please have the keys?”

Annie couldn’t reach her pocket. “You have to bring your arms down, Leroy.”

“I can’t get them down any further, Annie dear. There’s a big freaking branch right here.

There was a big freaking branch right there.

“Well I can’t reach my pockets, Leroy.”

“Is it murder to break off the branch?”

“Leroy! It’s Arbor Day!”

“Well that’s just great.” Leroy shook his arm like mad, and the chain banged against the tree branch. The cuff tightened and his wrist began to bleed. “Well that’s just great.”

“Maybe if I get on top of it I could reach my pocket.”

“Do it.”

Annie and Leroy sidled around the tree until Leroy’s shoulder bumped into the branch.

“Wrong way,” Leroy said.

They two-stepped the other way until Annie’s face was pressed against the branch.

“How am I gonna get up there?”

“Try to kick your leg up there,” Leroy said. “Then I’ll just keep going counter-clockwise and the cuffs will pull you up.”

“My arm will fall off!”

Leroy did not respond. Annie sighed and started kicking. She didn’t even come close. After five minutes she stopped.

“Well,” she said, “we’re just going to have to wait for the rest of them to get here.”

“It’s raining,” Leroy said.

---

“We really ripped that fucker out by the roots, didn’t we?” Leroy was dry.

Annie did not look amused.

Leroy continued laughing as he took a bite out of a block of smoked cheese shaped like a pig. “Right by the roots.”

“You’re disgusting,” Annie said. Her right arm was in a pale green cast that matched the wall perfectly.

Leroy laughed harder and chewed up cheese mush came out of his nose. He pulled a napkin from his lap and wiped his face, smearing the cheese across his lip like a mustache.

“We were saving the world and we ended up destroying precious life!” Annie wiped bits of smoked cheese pig from her blouse with her good hand.

“It was a damn tree, Annie!” Leroy accidentally bit the inside of his lip. “They were just going to cut it down anyway.” He washed the blood and cheese from his mouth with a swig of whole milk.

Oh Golly!

Well, I’m fresh out. Finally out of backlogged articles that I had written over the past three months. I’m working from scratch now. I can’t promise that I’ll continue posting on a bi-daily basis, but I certainly will try.

This is a short, short piece of fiction I wrote for a class.

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“Mister”

You know who ya are.

Thinkin’ yer all better than everybody else, what with yer arm brace and yer solitary nature. Just watchin’ the scoreboards flickerin’ on the faces of the little kids trippin’ over those half-drawn bowlin’ bumpers while ya run yer hand through that slicked-back hair, greasy as the pizza Larry’s slinging over in concessions. Ya think yer top banana but yer not. Taste that air. That’s hate and lust and feet and smoke. Breathe it in.

Yer all worried about yer form with that wrist splint, but no amount of wood and cloth will keep you from scuffin’ those horrible blue shoes against my hardwood floor. Mister All-Pro. Mister Skinny Minnie. There are twenty teenaged girls runnin’ round with skirts up to their hoohas, and they’re closer to a 300-game than ya could ever hope to be. Don’t think I can’t see ya leering. Mister Limpy. Mister Gimpy. At least the boozehounds and beer guts don’t try to hide it. They stare. You glance. Mister Pervert. Sick Mister.

Yeah. Put that ball back on the rack. Yer done fer the night. Too insecure to use one of the brightly colored bowling balls. Pink, green, orange, burgundy. All shiny and half neon. Not you though. Yer not shiny. Gotta be black. Classic black. Trusty black, jest like yer teeth. Don’t think nobody noticed. These lights are fluorescent, pally. Anybody with half a mind to sick themselves out could just take a gander at yer slack jaw, crawling with nachos and cheese fries and plaqueteria.

Oh, it’s plain to see. Yer headed to the arcade for fun and frivolity. Funny. Seems like the teenieboppers are there too, sittin’ on the scratchety-assed pool table and flirtin’ with the boys at the Pac-Man cabinet. Yer just in it fer the watchin’. Plunk in a couplea quarters for the crane game, maybe win yerself a couplea greeny yellow stuffed animals fer the lovely young ladies. Maybe they’ll remember ya in a few years when they can take out daddy’s car, and they’ll see ya in that wrist splint and throw ya a mercybone.

Yer shakin’ and it’s not helpin’ yer cranin’. Sick Mister. Hearin’ the girls shriek makes ya all aquiver. They love this song. Oops they did it again. Ya watch ‘em dance and ya delight in their dithyrambs. Ya shake some more and ya shake some more and then ya stop shakin’. No more quarters in yer pocket, eh? Is that right, Mister Poor? Mister Sadsack?

Whatcha doin’ there? Just ploppin’ on the arcade floor like a cadaver? Yeah, yer a real winner. Mister All-Pro. Slippin’ off yer blueshoes and puttin’ on yer specialshoes. Walkin’ a little straighter now, are ya?

Puff puff. Just a counterboy with his spraycan, of course. Ya hand him yer bowlin’ shoes, completely unaware of his admiration of ya. Of his yen. Puff puff puff. Mister Lover Lover. Walkin’ away and never knowin’.